


Spilled Milk, a Handkerchief, and an Imaginary Coat

by rosehips



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode tag: s17e11 Townhouse Incident, Pining, angst and fluff with a bittersweet ending, hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 23:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17171081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosehips/pseuds/rosehips
Summary: After the events of “Townhouse Incident,” Rafael worries, pines, and pays Olivia a visit at her apartment.Written for thousand_miles as part of thebarsondaily’s 2018 Secret Santa exchange (but not actually Christmas-y — this one got away from me).





	Spilled Milk, a Handkerchief, and an Imaginary Coat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thousand_miles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thousand_miles/gifts).



> I didn’t actually rewatch “Townhouse Incident” for this (I haven’t watched or rewatched anything since Barba left the show, RIP), so please excuse any continuity errors. It’s canon-compliant in spirit.

Rafael stands, staring, in the middle of the street.

He’s wearing the long camel coat he favors on winter days that are cold but not bitingly so. It’s the same one he wore to Hector Rodríguez’s vigil. He remembers the soft brush of the collar against his neck when he’d turned to see Olivia arrive with Laurie Colfax that night. He remembers the look on Liv’s face when Laurie told Delores Rodríguez that she’d take Louis Hodda to court, for the sake of both their sons. He remembers that look because he wasn’t watching Ms. Colfax, or even Señora Rodríguez. Liv was watching them, and he was watching her, and he saw justice in her eyes and right then he knew.

Rafael thought, over the next few days, that maybe he could forget. Ignorance is stupidity, ignorance is foolishness, ignorance is to be dangerous and to be in danger: these are the things he’d always believed until that night, and then afterwards he thought  _ Okay. Okay, maybe it really is bliss. Maybe it would be better if I never realized I love her. _

Maybe he would have worn this same coat to Liv’s vigil, if today had gone wrong. More wrong than it did.

He stuffs his fisted hands deep into its pockets and stands very still, though he wants to rock back and forth on his heels, as he watches Tucker speaking to Liv across the street.  _ No, not this coat. _ He would have worn black. He would have gone out and bought a new black coat to wear for her, and then he would have come home from the — the — his mind flinches from the word  _ funeral,  _ then skips over it like a child leaping over a narrow but deep, rushing stream. He would have come home and hung it up next to the one he wore the day Abuelita died and he would have never, ever, ever worn it again.

He can’t look away from her. The night of Hector’s vigil he couldn’t, either, though he knew he should. He’d been petrified even as he stared, sure that if she even glanced at his defenseless, open face she’d be able to read his mind, his heart. But they only exchanged a solemn nod ( _ I’m sorry we argued earlier, I’m sorry we lost the case, we’re “we” again, we’re a team _ ) before she turned back to the mourning mothers, and the mural of the little dead boy painted with the words “WE WILL NEVER FORGET HECTOR RODRIGUEZ.”

What memorial would there have been for Liv? Rafael can’t imagine NYPD commissioning a mural, nor a statue or a monument. Maybe they’d name something after her. She’d get a plaque. A posthumous medal. How do police pensions work — would Noah have gotten hers? Who would have taken care of Noah? She must have decided that ages ago, when she first adopted. She’s thorough, she’d have done all the paperwork for next of kin and guardians and he feels an anguished need to know what the  _ plan  _ was, to run across the street and interrupt whatever Tucker’s saying and ask Liv what would have happened.  _ What would have happened to Noah? What would have happened to me? If you had died today? _

Tucker squeezes Liv’s arms and she leans into him just a little.

_ Of course. That’s what she needs.  _ A rancid mixture of jealousy and shame rises in Rafael’s throat. Here he is, aching for comfort and reassurance from her, when she’s the one who needs those things most desperately. 

From Tucker, apparently.

But that’s not fair: Tucker  _ is _ the only one who’s giving her what she needs, right now. Tucker is the one who talked down Joe Utley on the phone while Rafael stood passively to the side, able only to listen and wait and not visibly vibrate with anxiety. Tucker helped save her life, and he’s still got a hand on her shoulder, and the concern on his face is past what’s professional. Rafael can’t see Liv’s face at all.

_"Look at me."_ That’s what he’d demanded of Ralph Volcov, back in the too-hot trailer still parked a few feet away. Rafael hadn’t even tried to keep his face neutral then:  _ let _ Volcov see him on the verge of panic,  _ let _ that scare him. It had worked. Volcov gave them Utley’s name, which helped Tucker negotiate, so Rafael  _ had _ been of use, but sweating in that little trailer he’d only felt helpless.

Tucker drops his hand and walks away, and Liv turns around. Rafael tucks the worry away where she can’t see it, and goes to her.

“Hey.” His voice comes out in a whisper, soft as he wishes his hands could be against hers, or against her bruised face. If he could only touch her once, maybe his racing heart would understand that she’s here, she’s whole, she’s alive. He removes his hands from his pockets, but only to clasp them together in front of himself.

“Hey,” she says. “You —” She licks her lips. They’re chapped. “He said you kept calling me. Joe.”

Rafael opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. “I didn’t see you at the conference, and then you weren’t at the precinct, and Lucy came by and said — Liv, I’m so sorry. I stopped calling as soon as they said it was a hostage situation. I know it must have made the tension worse.” 

He wants to say more but her eyes are glazed and distant and he’s not sure how many of his words have registered. He glances around them. The street is empty of anything except barricades on each end, dead leaves, trash, a few police cars, and the trailer where Tucker and some other officers are gathered. Carisi and Dodds are conferring in the doorway of the townhouse; inside, Rafael knows, CSU are combing through the crime scene. They’re scraping dried blood from the kitchen tiles, bagging the sheets from the bed of the sixteen-year-old girl Utley raped. The skin around Liv’s left eye is broken. Rafael’s fingers twitch.

Her voice is hoarse when she speaks again: “I need to get home to Noah.”

He nods quickly. “Of course. I can give you a ride.”

“Rafael.” It’s the first time she’s called him by his first name. He bites his cheek. “You don’t know how to drive.”

This surprises a laugh from him, or half of one. Liv almost, almost smiles.

“I’ll call a car, I meant.” It occurs to him that she probably doesn’t want to get into an enclosed space with a stranger behind the wheel. “Or — maybe it’d be better if one of the detectives…”

She ponders this briefly. “Carisi.”

“Dodds has been through enough today, huh,” he says. He regrets the words even before they’re out of his mouth: he’d been trying to make her smile, but although the image of Dodds and the EMT stripping down to underwear and bulletproof vests will surely make a funny story someday, one hour is not enough time to turn the absurdity of the image from horrifying to humorous. Rafael clears his throat. “I’ll, uh. I’ll go get him.” He lifts his hand to touch her arm ( _ Liv’s here, she’s alive, she’s okay _ ) but withdraws before his fingertips can so much as brush against her. 

He hunches his shoulders and jogs up the steps, only to have to flatten himself against the railing to make way for two CSU detectives carrying bags of evidence to the trailer. When he gets to Dodds and Carisi, he notices that they both still look shaken by the day’s events. This comforts Rafael until he remembers they were both, quite literally, in the line of fire, while he himself was never in physical danger. He pulls himself together.

“Carisi,” he says too crisply. “Sergeant Benson needs to get home. Can you drive her?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Carisi agrees. He claps Dodds on the arm and bounds down the stairs to his commanding officer, who is waiting alone in the street. Rafael goes to follow when Dodds stops him. 

“Thanks for your help today, Counselor,” he says. Rafael scans the man’s face for a hint of the canny guile Dodds’ father often reveals, but finds none. William’s son is as earnest as Carisi, it seems. 

“Likewise,” Rafael replies. He gives the detective a terse nod and tries to take his words to heart.

Olivia is saying something to Carisi about paperwork when Rafael rejoins her. “...fine as long as I get it to IAB by the end of the day tomorrow, Tucker told me,” she finishes. “Right now I just.” She closes her eyes, and when she inhales it’s with a shudder so small Rafael knows she’s working very hard not to cry. “I just need to get home.”

“Of course, Sarge, no problem. I’ll get a squad car right now.” Carisi lopes off to do just that, and Rafael turns to say goodbye to Olivia, except he can’t because her eyes are still closed and suddenly his throat is too.

He has to swallow four times before he can speak. “Liv,” he says. She sways on her feet and on instinct he grabs her arm to steady her. She flinches and opens her eyes. Their expression is hard to read: it’s gotten dark, Rafael notices belatedly. So much has happened in a short January day. “Liv,” he repeats. “Have you had any water, anything to eat?”

“I, uh…” He can see the effort it takes for her to focus her gaze on him. “Yeah, I had some water. I’m just tired. And I need to see my son.”

“Okay,” Rafael says softly. “Okay, have you had any food?”

“No,” Olivia answers absently as Carisi pulls up beside them. Her wrists are bruised; Rafael opens the car door for her. “I’m not hungry, though, it’s fine.” 

It’s almost a relief to encounter a problem so easily solved. “You have to have something,” he urges. “Liv, you’ve had a — an awful day, you could barely stand on your own just now.” He can’t see her face now, just the top of her head as she sits in the passenger seat and stares gazes out through the windshield.

“Okay.”

“You want me to make you something, Sarge?” Carisi interjects. “I got time, I can cook, whatever you need, you name it.”

Rafael envies the ease with which he offers. But then again, Carisi’s not in love with her.

“Sure,” Olivia says. Then: “No, it’s… been a long day. I don’t want — I have leftovers, I’ll be fine.” She winces as she buckles her seatbelt. “I just want to be alone with Noah.”

“Okay.” Carisi moves to start the car, then leans over and peers up at Rafael through the open door. “You want a ride home too, Counselor?”

Rafael blinks. “Ah, no,” he demurs.

“You sure?”

He wavers, but only for a moment. “Luxurious as the back of a police car may appear, I’d rather not get home in a cage on wheels, Detective. I’ll call a car with seats that  _ aren’t  _ made of vinyl and the bodily fluids of criminals.”

Carisi laughs. Olivia doesn’t. Rafael shuts the door gently, pulls his coat tighter around himself, and watches them drive away. 

* * *

He goes to see her the next day. He doesn’t want to, he really,  _ really  _ doesn’t want to, precisely because he  _ does  _ want to. He wants it far too much. For each part of him that longs to see her, another warns to stay away. He’d have obeyed the latter, if only by virtue of paralyzing indecision, if she hadn’t called him.

“Hey.”

He sets down his pen. “Liv, hi. Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” She sounds distracted, and he can hear tinny, cheerful music in the background, something from a kids’ TV show. “Uh, can you bring me the reports from the arrest Carisi and Dodds made yesterday morning, the guy they think is the push-in rapist? I want to look them over but I’m under strict instructions to take the day off.”

“So you want me to run contraband for you.” This gets a huff of a laugh out of her, and Rafael smiles despite himself. “Yeah, I’m actually going over the file now. I can be there in…” He pulls the phone away from his ear to check the time. “Twenty, thirty minutes.”

“Great,” Liv sighs. “Thanks, Barba.”

She calls him Rafael again when she lets him into her apartment, then reverts back to Barba as they review the police report. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, which is a relief because it means she won’t notice how he swallows when she uses his first name. He’s hyper-aware of her movements this afternoon, and of the bruising on her face. Skin that was red and pink with blood yesterday is deep purple and yellow today. It’s worst around her left eye and the right side of her mouth, impossible to hide. She’s not wearing makeup. He wonders how she explained it to Noah, who is currently napping in the next room.

Or was. Rafael stops mid-sentence when he notices the little boy standing in the entry to the living room, rubbing his eyes.

“Mama I need a apple,” he announces. “Hi Mister Barba,” he adds shyly. 

“Hey, Noah.” He hastily closes the file in front of him so Noah won’t glimpse evidence photos of a victim’s stained, torn clothing. “Did you have a good nap?”

“I don’t know.” Noah pads over as Olivia goes to the kitchen. “Mister Barba did you ever go inside a police car? Mama got to ride in a police car yesterday. I got to see inside but Mama wouldn’t let me drive it cuz we had to have dinner. And then we had pizza for dinner, and we watched Nemo and Mama fell asleep right on the couch!”

“Noah had to wake me up to tell me to go to sleep,” Olivia confirms, and her son shrieks with laughter, clinging to Rafael’s leg so he doesn’t fall over in his mirth. “We — oh,  _ shoot. _ ” There’s a clatter from the kitchen: she’s dropped the milk she was pouring for Noah. She hisses in pain when she moves to bend down.

“Hey.” Rafael peels Noah’s hands from his pant leg and hurries over. “Hey, I got it, it’s okay.” There’s milk spilled across the tiles, down Olivia’s shirt and leggings, splashed against the cabinets and counter. The gallon gives out a final, pathetic glug as the last of its contents empties onto the floor.

“I’m —” Olivia takes a breath. “I’m  _ covered in milk. _ ” She starts to laugh, then winces and presses a hand to her ribs. “I’m covered in bruises and milk.” There are tears in her eyes now but she’s still laughing a bit, her odd silent laugh that Rafael loves so much.

“I can take care of it while you get changed,” he assures her. “Just show me where your towels are and I’ll… use up every single one of them, it looks like.” 

She laughs again and points him to the linen closet. “Noah, stay out of the kitchen,” she warns her son. Then in an undertone to Rafael: “I’m actually going to take a shower. I’ll be quick, I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” he tells her earnestly over a stack of towels. “I’ll — we’ll be fine.” Noah gives him a wary look but doesn’t dispute the statement, or protest when his mother disappears into her bedroom.

Instead he seems content to watch Rafael clean up. And talk. “Laila’s dog eats everything she spills,” he informs Rafael. “She said he eats pizza and sandwiches and spaghetti and  _ raw chicken  _ and one time he ate chocolate and then he threw up all over the place and  _ he ate the throw-up  _ and it was  _ green _ ! And his name is…” Noah struggles for a moment. “I don’t remember his name. But he would drink all the milk off the floor.”

“Well, I wish he was here right now, then,” Rafael grumbles, hamming it up a bit for Noah’s entertainment. The creaking in his knees is all real, though, as is the discomfort as he tries to get a towel under the fridge so it can soak up the milk there. When he pulls it out, the fabric is wet and grey. Rafael grimaces, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “Noah, can you show me where the washing machine is?”

“‘S right there,” Noah says, pointing to a closet door in the hallway. Rafael deposits the offending towel and returns to the still-damp kitchen. “Will you read to me?”

“Um, maybe in a few minutes, okay?” Rafael catches himself before rubbing his face with his dirty hands. “I have to finish cleaning up for your mami.”

“Are you in trouble if you don’t clean up?”

Rafael snorts. “No, don’t worry.”

“Then you can read to me!”

So it was a trick, not genuine concern. Rafael didn’t realize toddlers were capable of deception. “Nice try, Noah.” He brandishes the last clean towel. “But if you help me, we’ll get done faster and I can read to you sooner.”

In the end it takes much longer to finish with Noah’s “help,” which Rafael thinks he really ought to have predicted in the first place. Both of them have milk on their shirts by the time they’re done, and while Rafael is grateful he had the foresight to remove his jacket and vest beforehand, he’s not exactly pleased with the state of his blue paisley tie. Especially not when Noah yanks on it.

“Hey,” Rafael wheezes, clutching the his neck with one hand and the fabric with the other. “Stop that.”

“It’s pretty,” Noah pronounces as he crushes the silk in his tiny fist. “Soft!”

“Okay.” Rafael manages to pry the garment from Noah’s hands. “Okay, okay, let’s get you changed into a dry shirt.”

Noah’s eyes widen to twice their size. “ _ No,  _ this is my  _ favorite shirt! I don’t want a new shirt! _ ”

“Shh, shh, okay! Okay. Don’t cry, it’s okay, you can wear this one.” Practical as he is, Rafael doesn’t like to choose his battles — he’d rather fight, and win, all of them — but it seems he’s met his match. “Here, just… put this towel over your shoulders so you don’t get the couch wet, okay? Good.” Only after Noah is settled in does Rafael realize they haven’t picked out a book. He’s debating whether to ask Noah to get up and choose one, or risk selecting one himself without approval, when Liv comes back.

She’s wearing jeans and a baggy NYPD sweatshirt now, and her damp hair is curling slightly against her injured face.  _ She looks beautiful, _ Rafael thinks.  _ She’s alive. _

“Mama we’re gonna do a story!” Noah cries, standing up on the couch to talk to her over its back. Liv smiles.  _ She’s here. She’s alive. _

 

Two storybooks and seven apple slices later, Noah succumbs to a spectacular series of yawns and confesses that he hadn’t slept during naptime. It doesn’t take long for Olivia to put him to bed, at which point the apartment becomes so quiet Rafael feels the need to whisper when she returns.

“He was awfully chatty.”

Liv sits next to him on the couch. “He almost never talks that much.”

Rafael gives her a crooked grin. “I must be rubbing off on him.”

“No, really.” She raises her eyebrows significantly. “I was worried for a while, a few months back, that he was close to non-verbal. He’s been getting better, but today was something else.”

“I guess he really likes spilled milk.”

“And you.”

Liv’s looking at him like he’s special, and important, and precious. He clears his throat and casts his eyes around the toy-strewn room. “Guess so.”

“Thank you for watching him,” she says quietly.

He shrugs. “It was just for a few minutes.” When she doesn’t answer, he can’t help but search her face for a clue to her thoughts. “You doing okay?”

She closes her eyes, sighs, and opens them again. “I told him that a bad guy hit me. Yesterday, when he asked what happened. I told him it didn’t hurt and that I was okay, and nothing bad would ever happen to me. And he seemed to buy it. Maybe because Carisi distracted him with the cruiser.” 

“Yeah, the car definitely made an impression on him,” Rafael confirms wryly.

“I just don’t know how long that’ll last.” Her mouth twists. “I mean, he’ll forget about this time, he’s young enough. But later, when he’s older, old enough to know how dangerous this job is, I don’t know what I’ll be able to say.” Her eyes meet Rafael’s for a moment, then dart away. “And all the time I was trapped in there yesterday, all I could think was  _ I have to get home to Noah, I have to get home to Noah,  _ and now I keep wondering what would have happened if I had — if I had —” 

Rafael thinks about the imagined black coat hanging in the back of his closet, in some terrible alternate universe in which Liv died in that townhouse. He blinks hard.

“But you didn’t,” he tells her, voice low and urgent. “Liv, you didn’t. You’re here. You made it. He’s got you, he’s going to be okay.” 

She lets out a breath so deep and shuddering it’s as if she’d been holding it in since yesterday, and she begins to cry, and Rafael doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate: he pulls her into his arms. “Hey.” He rubs her back, heart in his throat as she presses her face into his neck. “Shh, hey, Liv, it’s okay, you’re okay.” His hand trembles as it touches her hair. When she pulls back a few moments later, he fumbles for his jacket to pull out a handkerchief for her. “Here,” he whispers. She blows her nose and clears her throat.

“Sorry. I’m fine. It’s fine.”

He grimaces, then tries to turn the expression into a smile for her. He’s pretty sure he failed. “You had a really hard day yesterday,” he tells her softly. “It’s okay.”

Olivia shakes the hair from her face. Her eyes are distant. Rafael waits for her to speak. It only takes a few moments.

“I listened to him rape a sixteen-year-old girl, Rafael. And I didn’t do anything.”

He shakes his head. “I read that report too. Including your statement. You had a gun on you, Liv. You did what you had to do to survive. You got back home to Noah. The girl survived. In time, with therapy —” 

“You know part of me is glad he’s dead?”

Rafael squeezes her hand, which is still clutching the handkerchief. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I was worried,” she continues, “that I’d have nightmares. About Lewis.” She lifts her chin. “But I didn’t. I think it’s because I saw his body, Joe’s body. I knew he was gone forever.”

He knows she went to the morgue to see William Lewis’ corpse, after the man finally,  _ finally _ died. Just to be sure. And sure again after that.

“I get it,” he whispers.

Olivia looks down at their joined hands, then back at him. “I know,” she says. “I know.” A pause as she gazes down again. “Your handkerchief smells like perfume.” Rafael watches her force a smile as she notices the initials embroidered on its corner:  _ C.D.  _ “You got a girlfriend I don’t know about, Barba?”

That puts a pain in his chest. A sharp one. “No.” He withdraws his hand to rub his jaw. “The pañuelo, it belonged to my grandfather. Abuela left it to me.” Rafael wiggles his fingers dismissively when Olivia tilts her head, wordlessly prompting him to go on. “He carried it with him and kept her perfume on it, left it to her when he died, she left it to me to — it’s just an old Cuban family thing.”

Olivia looks aghast. “It’s your grandmother’s? The one who — who passed away last December?”

Rafael stops himself from running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t want to appear agitated, but it’s hard, with tears still in Olivia’s eyes and bruises still on her face, Abuela gone forever, Hector’s mother trapped in grief for so many years. A reeling sense of loss, and almost-loss, and the horrors that could have happened, and the happiness that almost did. 

“Yeah,” he answers. 

“And I blew my nose into it. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, that’s why I gave it to you.”

“I’ll wash it and get it back to you,” Olivia promises. “If you tell me the perfume I can get that too, if you want to keep the smell…?”

“It’s fine,” Rafael insists. “Just don’t wash it with the milk towels.”

This elicits a weak laugh from them both, but Rafael catches his lip trembling and clenches his jaw quick to keep from showing more. Except it’s too late: his eyes are wet, and when he drops his head and blinks hard he knows she’s noticed.

What he doesn’t expect is for her to reach out and cup his face in her hand.

“You’re going to give yourself one of your migraines if you keep clenching your jaw like that, Rafael,” she tells him softly. Her thumb is running lightly up and down his cheek, less than an inch from his lips. He doesn’t dare breathe or look at her. He counts eight beats of his pounding heart before she pulls back her hand. 

“Yeah.” He licks his lips and stares at his feet. “I, uh.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t finish cleaning up. Do you have a Swiffer?”

Mercifully, Olivia lets him escape to the kitchen, where he can surreptitiously wipe his eyes and pretend she doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. Rafael only takes a few minutes to get the tiles gleaming clean, and then he says goodbye, gingerly touches her arm (sleeve soft and warm), and leaves. 


End file.
